


paralogue

by monsooned (leovenus)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Study, F/M, UST, Undressing, rated more for themes than anything happening, set during crimson flower, something more than fealty, the intimacy of touch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25147192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leovenus/pseuds/monsooned
Summary: In between the battles, the Emperor relents.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 11
Kudos: 51





	paralogue

The crown is heavy upon her head.

Edelgard considers herself in the mirror, humourless, watching the way the light glints off the burnished metal of her horns, reflecting eerily in the violet of her eyes. The high collar of her gown scratches in a way she knows runs deeper than her skin; _I will undress, then bathe, and hope sleep finds me._ She knows it is a futile thought; she indulges it nonetheless.

She starts with removing her gloves in turn. As her skin is freed she distractedly rubs finger and thumb together, getting used to the sensation of feeling again. The gloves she sets down in front of her. Edelgard starts to work on the headpiece, next, but as she is reaching for the catch that holds her hair in place there is a coded knock at the door to her chambers, and her hands still.

"Come in," she calls, and does not need to look to see who enters.

A presence materialises at her side. "Your Majesty." A pause, just long enough for her to catch his gaze in the mirror. Green eyes dart to her hair, and then back. "May I?"

She lowers her hands, and leans back against the chair, straight-backed. Edelgard regards him idly, half-lidded and the wrong way round, before he dips his gaze deferentially and she releases a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. Swallows an emotion that feels like disappointment.

"Please," she says. He does this better than she can.

Hubert bows, customary, before he begins. Edelgard watches as the reflection of his hands searches out the twists at the side of her head, loosening the hidden catch and delicately tugging the hair loose of the plates. His head dips close to her ear as he works.

"I have sent for your bath," he informs her in a murmur. She nods her thanks as the other catch clicks against her skull, and she is transfixed as his fingers ease under the tight coils of her hair, brushing against her temple, and pull the knot free.

In the waning daylight the blinding white is warmed golden as it cascades downwards, like so much fine silk loosed from its holds. The locks unfurled, Hubert gently takes hold of the headpiece and lifts it off her crown. Every movement is calculated, precise. She waits for the painful twinge of hair caught in metal, but it does not come.

The horns are set upon the mantle, and together with them the Emperor. Edelgard startles at the sensation of fingers running through the messy curls left behind, coaxing them to relax into loose waves. Then the pressure moves to her scalp, deft fingers drawing circles where the tension pulls the tightest.

This part, he hasn’t done before.

"Hubert," she interrupts softly. "What are you doing?"

"Attending to you." His voice is velvet-smooth as he pauses. “I hope you do not mind, your Majesty.”

 _But why,_ she doesn’t ask, because Hubert is infuriating when he keeps his secrets. Edelgard purses her lips. “No,” she tells him, honestly. The following words are harder to say. “It’s - nice.”

The faintest semblance of a smile bleeds onto Hubert’s face. It gentles his sombre features. “It pleases me to hear, milady.”

It’s a rare expression on him, but he wears it well. Before she can idle too long on the thought Edelgard pulls herself away from it, lets her eyelids fall briefly closed for however long it is Hubert tends to her hair. She will be bathing shortly, of course, and so perhaps this part is redundant, but the ritual of care makes her forget for a moment the cloying feel of satin on skin, the unshakeable image of crusted blood beneath her immaculate fingernails.

There is an absence, and her eyes flutter open sharply. When she turns Hubert has stepped back, head inclined briefly towards her. At the same moment there is a series of knocks at the door; at his word two servants enter, tugging between them a large, wooden tub filled with water.

She realises Hubert has angled himself so as to obscure her from their view - protecting the image that they have worked so hard to build. The Emperor is human, has skin and bones. It is something only those closest to her know.

“Beyond the screen.” She waits, watching in his shadow, as the bath is set down and they are shown out with a word of thanks.

Then Hubert is back in her doorway, sweeping into the bow that means he is about to take his leave.

A breath lodges terribly in her throat. “Wait.”

Half-turned, Hubert stills.

“Hubert,” she says, with more conviction.

When he looks at her she wonders what he sees. “Milady.” The word is a question, but only because she knows how to hear it.

In the periphery of her vision her hand is bone-white where she is gripping the arm of her chair. “Stay,” she manages. It’s not an order. “Please.”

There is the barest hint of a pause before he nods, and steps away from the door. She rises to meet him, standing as close as she dares. His expression is as unreadable as always. It stirs something indignant inside of her. _You can’t tell me you don’t feel._

Edelgard tries to keep her voice light. “Help me out of this thing?”

Dutiful hands settle on her shoulders, touch impersonal, and guide her to turn around. Automatically she lowers her head and reaches to sweep her hair to the side, only to feel the brush of skin against her ear as the task is done for her.

It knocks her off balance. Edelgard drops her hands to her sides, and tries to let go.

Hubert reaches around her and loosens the hook of her overcoat, peeling it off and folding it before laying it neatly over the back of the chair. It’s clear he does so automatically; Edelgard thinks about servitude, and it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

The air is cold against her exposed back. “My apologies,” Hubert prefaces, as he reaches for the fastening at her neck, his fingers skimming barely over the skin there. Edelgard shudders as her collar falls open, the fabric peeling away from her sticky skin allowing her to finally breathe.

Hubert hesitates.

“There is no need to stop,” she tells him, searching out his gaze over her shoulder. “Unless, of course, you are uncomfortable -“

Hands fall to the dip just above her hips. She isn’t sure if she imagines the way they tense, briefly, before relaxing. “That is not the case, your Majesty.”

The armoured contraption latching her skirts to her bodice is unwieldy. She waits, breath held, as Hubert loosens it with ease, and at her nod, slides it free.

Edelgard catches her dress at the collar and tugs it away, sliding her arms out of the sleeves before letting it drop to the floor, pooling richly into a puddle of red at her feet, leaving her in a thin chemise and her stockings.

Hubert starts towards the fabric, about to pick it up, but she stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Instead she says, “My stockings.”

His gaze flickers down, then he nods. When she returns to sit in the chair he follows, dropping to his knees before her.

“By your leave.” His pale green eyes are clear.

Wordlessly, Edelgard extends her leg towards him. Hubert catches her foot, setting it delicately on his knee, and then - gaze averted - slides a hand under her skirt to search out her garters, unsnapping each of them.

People have called him cold-blooded. She knows this is not true by the way his hands burn trails into her skin however briefly they touch. Edelgard’s breath hitches when his fingers fold under the thin material, slides it off her skin. Impossibly tender, he sets her foot down and attends to the other leg, head bowed the entire time.

Something twists in her chest.

“Rise,” she urges, and this time she goes to him.

Edelgard stretches onto the tips of her toes, curling hands around his neck as she turns her face to him, a flower in the sun. Hubert, as always, anticipates; he catches her waist when she falls into him. Catches her mouth, too, as she seeks him out, slow, simmering.

She takes her time, if only because it has been too many years to rush now. He lets her take, the yielding tempered by his grip so close to her skin, an anchoring touch.

“Hubert,” she murmurs, pulling a hair’s breadth away and twisting a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck, so much shorter than he had worn when they were children. “Tell me - tell me if it’s too much.”

Maybe she looks as afraid as she feels. He looks at her properly, searchingly, for a long moment - and then she sees the dam break as he takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets her fall back onto her feet, pressing his cheek to the crown of her head. Every movement is tentative, asks for permission.

“Never, milady.”

She smiles ruefully in spite of herself. “You always do that.”

“What?”

Edelgard toys with the edge of his cravat, fascinated by its pristine lustre. His hands are no cleaner than hers, but he has always managed a level of being untouchable that she would privately profess to knowing she cannot reach.

“Avoid calling me by my name,” she says, pulling away just enough to look him in the eye, chin defiantly tipped.

Hubert contemplates her for a moment, then nods. “Lady Edelgard.”

It is a form of address he has rarely used since she took the throne, but even then she shakes her head. “Not that, Hubert.” In a rare show of indulgence her hand comes up to frame his face, her fingertips tracing the sharp jut of a cheekbone. She allows herself not to pull it away.

She hadn’t expected, in response, the full weight of his devotion reflected clearly back at her. Edelgard refuses to shy away. A ghost of a smile tugs the corner of his mouth up, coloured with something like understanding. Then he turns his face into her palm, pressing the faintest of kisses there. Hums, “Edelgard.”

Before she can react he gently takes her by the wrist and pulls her hand away from his face, touch lingering as he steps back and bows. When he straightens it is to watch her, this time waiting for the dismissal.

“You -“ she blurts, losing her composure for a moment. He has always had the capacity to tip her off-kilter, even as she knows he stabilises her. She catches herself, flushing, then demands, “Attend to my bath.”

They both hear it - it is her Imperial Princess voice, the one that commanded more authority than it rightfully had any claim to. Hubert, fortunately, does not remark, instead going suddenly, dreadfully still.

What she had asked of him rushes back to her, superseding the embarrassment. Edelgard recovers, taking in the wooden lines of his posture, and breathes a laugh. “You have seen me naked,” she reminds him, airily.

A half-truth; never in such a capacity. “Milady,” Hubert says, in lieu of an answer.

It is rare for him - her sharp, brilliant, eloquent Hubert - to be at a loss for words. Edelgard claims the victory as it comes, as is her wont, and slips behind the screen, undressing and lowering herself into the water.

A discreet further few seconds pass before he follows, announcing his presence by way of an awkward clearing of his throat. Unperturbed Edelgard gestures him closer, nodding to the bar of soap, scoop and washcloth set in a smaller bucket to the side.

There is a stool near the screen; setting it against the side of the tub, Hubert picks up the scoop and dips it into the water. Obligingly Edelgard closes her eyes and tips her head backwards, allowing her hair to fall in sheets to the water.

He shields her forehead with a hand, anyway, wetting her hair with a quiet care. Edelgard idly considers the ceiling and listens to Hubert work, the only indication of his presence the soft burble of water being scooped.

“You seem to know how to do this,” she says at length, breaking the silence. It strikes her as strange, since Hubert has been - hers - nearly as long as she can remember. Certainly for the parts of her life she doesn’t, as well.

Hubert huffs something like a laugh, sounding almost relaxed. “House tradition,” he tells her.

 _Oh, that’s right,_ Edelgard realises with a jolt. _I wasn’t always the only Hresvelg._

She recognises the scent of lavenders - abundant in the Empire, and sent to Garreg Mach with their supply runs as a sole indulgence - as Hubert works the soap into a lather, pressing his hands to her temples. “Look forward, milady,” he tells her, almost instructive.

The tension he is maintaining on her hair tells her he isn’t talking about the angle of her head. She recognises plainly the sentimentality hidden in the comment, and bites on her tongue to avoid embarrassing him by acknowledging it. Instead she changes the subject.

“Hey, Hubert?”

He hums at the informal tone, massaging the lather into her hairline and working throughout her scalp. “What is it, milady?”

Eyes closed, she thinks about the times she had seen him sitting in the monastery with other students, looking like somebody who hadn’t had to pledge his life to hers. It had been regret that tugged at her then, and it is an emotion only a shade off from it that sinks into her fingers now. “Do you ever think about - what will happen after the war?”

His hands run methodically through her hair once, then again, and then yet again. The gentle pressure is soothing. “We will work to create the society you envisioned, milady. It may be a task of many years yet.”

From this angle, she can’t see his face. “Right as always, Hubert,” she quips, drily. When she next speaks she knows her voice has grown impossibly small. “But do you think... things will be different?”

Hubert dips the scoop in the water, and begins to wash the foam out of her hair, twisting it gently around his hand to ease the strain on her neck. “You - know that I am not one for sentiment,” he starts. Dip, pour, wring.

 _Liar. You’ve just trained yourself never to show it_.

But she waits, her silence prompting him to continue.

“But I confess I would be glad for you to have those days of frivolity you dream of so wildly.”

She hadn’t expected that answer. “Yeah?” Edelgard teases, feeling for a moment like she might understand what Dorothea means when she gushes about the euphoria of emotion. “And what about you, Hubert?” Deeming her hair sufficiently cleansed, she straightens up so she can turn and peer up at him. “Would you come and be frivolous with me?”

He says nothing for a few long moments, avoiding her gaze, the swell of her chest visible above the meniscus of the water. He reaches for her hair, which has fallen back into the tub, and twists it fractions at a time, wringing it out before coiling it into a bun at the top of her head and securing it with a hairpin produced from within the folds of his attire. Through all of this Edelgard waits patiently; for all he has done for her, she owes him this much.

“If it would please you,” he says, finally.

“Would it please _you?_ ” she counters, well acquainted with his game. For all his evasiveness, she knows, too, that she sits squarely in his weakness. It is out of long-earned respect that she rarely plays the card.

Hubert’s gaze is fixed squarely somewhere around her left ear. Edelgard lets out a soft _oh_ of surprise when he reaches out, tucking behind her ear a lock of hair that had fallen loose from the makeshift updo. When he pulls back he settles.

“You know that it would.”

Satisfied, Edelgard turns back around and leans forward, baring her back to him. The conversation lapses into a lull as Hubert works.

“You are most insufferable, you know,” she tells him eventually, propping her arm up on one knee and resting her face in her hand. Behind his heavy fringe she suspects he raises a brow.

She doesn’t wait for him to answer, knows he prides himself on the fact. “Lay out my sleepwear. I will be out presently.”

He takes his leave, and when she finishes her bath and steps out her clothes and towel are resting on the screen. The night is creeping up upon them; as she dresses, she hears Hubert busying himself with lighting the lamps with a soft muttered spell. She leaves her hair in the bun.

“Hubert,” she calls. Instantly, he comes. He always does.

Whatever he sees on her face when she looks at him causes his features to shift. Hubert meets her when she steps in to him, head falling against his chest in a thud.

“Lady Edelgard,” he says after a moment, his voice rumbling through her skull where it’s pressed to his chest. “Forgive my indiscretion,” she hears, before her face is tipped up towards his, his fingers curled under her jaw.

The lamplight is a halo of fire on his hair, dark like the ocean she is so afraid of. It limns his face in gold, settles like banked embers in his visible eye. Brazenly, she reaches her left hand up to brush his fringe away so that she can watch the light dance unhindered.

His gaze shifts. She follows his line of sight to find the strap of her nightgown having fallen to bare her shoulder, and meets his gaze with heat on the way back up.

“Go ahead,” she whispers.

Slowly - delicately - he pulls the strap back up her shoulder, laying it flat against her skin, palm grazing her arm the whole way down. He lets her fist her hands in the sides of his coat, bends to meet her, this time, when she kisses him so desperately she thinks she might draw blood.

He cradles her face in one hand, holds her with the other. She leans into the touch, wishing she had the freedom, the time to understand. To learn. She wants - there are so many things she wants. She gives in to only one of them.

“Tell me,” she pleads, when they’re forehead to forehead and his nose is nudging against hers and her mouth is sore and she knows the skin at her waist will bruise tomorrow. “If you’ll wait - until that day.”

She stops, her breath shallow as she wills herself to be brave. Despite the war there are battles she has always run from. “That day when you’ll be frivolous with me.”

“I would do anything for you,” Hubert tells her, less a promise than a statement of fact. It’s nothing he hasn’t said before, but skin to skin, it feels like something more.

Shakily, she smiles against the edge of his mouth. “That’s the problem.”

“Perhaps,” Hubert concedes, amusement heavy in his tone. With a final glancing brush of lips to her temple he raises his arms, and she steps away on his cue, straightening out her attire, putting distance between them.

He waits for her to reach her desk before he lights the fireplace. Back in the shadows, he steps further away from her.

“Keep yourself warm, your Majesty,” he says, very evenly. “It will be a cold night. The bath will be collected shortly.”

She traces the edge of a Faerghian tactics primer left on her desk, obtained by unknown means. “Of course,” she agrees, absentminded. Her head is still buzzing from the brief proximity, a memory of warmth. “Goodnight, Hubert.”

He lingers a second more. “Goodnight, Edelgard.”

By the time she whips her head around, he is gone. In the fireplace the fire cracks and spits, filling the space with its diffident dialect.

Outside the window, the moon has settled lushly into the backdrop of an inky sky.


End file.
